About Me

Saturday, February 12, 2011

Madelon and I just returned from eight days in Hawaii. We stayed in Kailua on Ohau. On our second day there we drove back to Honolulu to pick up our friend, Erica, and drove out to Diamond Head Park. We had been planning on hiking to the top of Diamond Head, possibly as a warm up to climbing Koko Head. Diamond Head has always looked like a large ridge to me, as almost all the pictures of it are taken from Honolulu, essentially the west side of the crater. However, it is a very large volcanic crater. I thought the hike would start at the north end of the ridge on a trail that would switch back up to the crest, and then follow the crest to the summit.

The trail starts on the west side of the crater, and goes up the side of the crater with very few switch backs. In the early 20th century bunkers were built atop the ridge to defend Hawaii should the islands ever be attacked. December 7, 1941, is proof that the plan didn't work! The trail goes a few hundred yards at moderate grade, and then the fun begins. Either the military, or the Hawaiians, have never understood the concept of switch backs, because soon the grade of the trail increases dramatically. The trail is steep and narrow! And, many people take this hike on the three days that the park is open, creating traffic jams and, occasionally temporary grid lock. Approximately halfway to the crest there are 74 steps, leading to a 255 foot long, gently sloping tunnel. In the recent past it was recommended to carry a flashlight as the tunnel was dark. Recently, the tunnel has been wired with lights. We exited the tunnel, turned right, and there were the most daunting 99 steps I can ever recall. I was exhausted! I rested awhile, watching kids wearing flip flops, middle age couples with children, and people older than me, go right up those stairs like they were on an escalator. There were a few who appeared as tired as I was. I made it to the top of the stairs, but I didn't think I could go any farther. I sat for about 15 minutes, and when I stood to begin descending the steps, I was surprised to feel I might be able to continue the climb. We went through a short tunnel, and there was a three story spiral staircase that led to the bunker near the top of the ridge. After crawling through the very small portal that exits the bunker, there are another forty plus/minus easy stairs to the summit bunker.

The view was fantastically awesome. We could look northeast and see Koko Head and Makapu craters, north to the Koolaupoko Ridge, west to Honolulu, Pearl Harbor and beyond, and south to the distant curve of the horizon. We rested, visited with other hikers, took snapshots, drank water, and practically became drunk on the view. We eventually we began our descent.

The trail guide states that it is 0.8 of a mile to the top, with a vertical rise of 560 feet from the crater floor to an elevation of 761 feet. My old body felt like it was quadruple that figure. I am sure glad I continued after I thought I was done!

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

I'm sitting here listening to one of my favorite old albums, Renegade Picker, by Steve Young, which he recorded in 1976. This is one of those great albums that would be in the alt. country genre these days, but back then we just called it rock/country. I was specially taken by the third song on the album, Old Memories (mean nothing to me).

Old memories mean everything to me! I have memories of the good, the bad, and the ugly incidents in my life. I have been shaped by my actions, follies, and miss steps. It is the recollections of my life that continues to enhance my sense of me. After bringing forth a memory of a very rueful incident in my behavior, not only do I allow myself a chance for self forgiveness; but I also create options that would've prevented said behavior had I not been so rash, or unthoughtful, or unkind. I rarely sit and

dig around in my deep store of memories to find a bad one. Memories just happen. I feel that I can use the memories of the dark side of my life to provide positive growth, to be a better person, to live peacefully and happily.

I do not think I am unique when I admit that I have some ugly memories: some incidents created by another person, or persons; and some created by some horrible behavior of my own. As I grow older, when an unpleasant memory caused by another occurs, I am more likely to try and forgive their behavior, than I am to forgive myself for my own abhor-able behavior. For others I try to believe that everyone is attempting to be their best. I know this does not speak well for a lot of humans; but just think how much worse they could be if they weren't trying!

Good memories are a joy. They are pleasant to recall, and frequently they are pleasant to share. How many conversations with friends have we had that began with, “remember when?” We gleefully share our versions of the same happy incident with smiles and laughter. We often disagree on the sequence of the event, or whom actually did what, or what we did later; but it is usually with great happiness that the event is recreated. Happy memories that arise when I am alone, driving, working in the yard or garden, mechanically swinging a fly while fishing,or just sitting, are uplifting and balancing for my psyche. It is like an endorphin release, somewhat exhilarating. Good memories provide me with inspiration to continue to grow, be better, and live happily.

As I grow older I only want to feel at peace with myself, and be among people that I love, and that love me. I want to be a nice man, I want to live by “the golden rule.”

Thank you, Steve Young. I really love your singing and the songs you choose to record. And, to see and hear you at The Mississippi Studio, this year was one my years highlights.

An angler can catch a lot of rainbow trout and yet have no clue what a remarkable force of nature—and mankind—the creatures truly are. Anders Halverson, a research associate at the University of Colorado's Center of the American West, hoists them up for close inspection in a book just released by Yale University Press: An Entirely Synthetic Fish: How Rainbow Trout Beguiled America and Overran the World.

Few one-that-got-away stories sound nearly as improbable as his account of how our species,Homo sapiens, spread the fish species, Oncorhynchus mykiss, beyond its native.......

Friday, January 22, 2010

The Caddis Fly Shop in Eugene, the Oregonflyfishingblog.com, and Hareline Dubbin Co. had a fly tying contest back in November. The only rule was that a Unibobber, a small float, had to be part of the fly. They even supplied a half dozen Unibobbers, mailed to me postage free. I sent for the Unibobbers, and then began to consider the fly I wanted to tie for the contest. Two weeks later, there was a blog entry video on Oregonflyfishingblog.com showing how to tie the Lucky Strike, a dry fly pattern using elk or deer hair for the post. I thought this was an excellent and relative easy pattern to tie incorporating the Unibobber. I am not a great fly tier, I have only been tying for a little over a year. With no expectations of winning any of the prizes, I tied my fly using the Unibobber for the post, named it Bill's Lucky Bob, mailed it to the Caddis Fly Shop, and forgot about it.

I check Oregonflyfishingblog.com almost daily, as well as several other Northwest fly fishing blogs. I was extremely surprised Tuesday when I logged on the blog and saw my name, a picture of the fly, and the first prize award. First prize was a very nice Italian tying vise.

Sunday, December 27, 2009

Harold J. Dick

Harold lived a very full life filled with family, friends, fellow car enthusiasts and his business. He was born in Dallas, Ore., in 1937, graduated from Tigard High School class of 1955 and went on to Portland State College. Harold was the proud owner of Harold's Auto Service, which he began 48 years ago (1961) with two grease racks in a rental space provided by Jack's Shell station on Southeast Seventh and Morrison. His unique personality charmed his customers and required expansions and relocations to a shop on Southeast Belmont Street at the east end of the Morrison Bridge, then to the present location on Southeast Seventh and Grant in Portland. Harold was known for his love of cars, his infectious laugh, his ability to have a personal relationship with every customer and his unique way of doing business. It was through his relationships and referrals that his business grew without a phone book listing nor any paid advertising. He had a strong opinion about car maintenance and was never shy to be direct. His customers thrived on his poignancy and were incredibly loyal-in some cases three generations of family customers. Harold had no intention of ever retiring from his love of cars and the people that drove them; next to his family, it's what he loved. Harold's passion for cars included the people, their cars and the clubs that brought them together. Those memberships included Club T-MG, Northwest Automotive Trades Association (past president), The Touring Club of Oregon (past treasurer), Sports Car Club of America, Columbia Gorge MGA Club, Cascade Sports Car Club, Kiwanis and the Milwaukie Elks. In his early days through midlife, he raced cars throughout the Pacific Northwest region through Sports Car Club of America. In addition to his passion for cars he made sure to spend time giving back as a weekly driver for the Meals-On-Wheels program. He also served as a car show judge for the Concours d'Elegance in Forest Grove every summer. Harold is survived by his wife, Gerri; sons, Kip, Steve and Brice (Andréa); sister, Priscilla Price; brothers, John and Darrell Dick; and grandchildren, Kellan, Devon and Eliana. A memorial service celebrating Harold's life will be held at 1 p.m. Friday, Jan. 8, 2010, in the Melody Ballroom in Southeast Portland.

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

In February, 1967, I was working as a section laborer on the Spokane, Portland, and Seattle Railroad, with my childhood friend, Chris Rhoads. In the mornings we drove about 22 miles out the Pasco-Kahlotus Highway, then drove down a gravel road toward the Snake River to the railroad section shack headquarters. I don't remember the name of the section, but we were down river several miles from where the Lower Monumental Dam is. Our foreman and the other member of the gang were a couple of old alkies from Kahlotus. Our job was primarily to cruise the rails of the section in a little motorized cart, hauling a trailer with the tools, and check the track for rock slide damage. The tracks were a couple hundred mostly vertical feet above the river, with another fifty to a hundred vertical feet above the tracks. As in any canyon, there were many little side canyons that were crossed on small, and not so small trestles. Our other main job was to replace the old ties that were on both ends of the trestles. The big tie crews, with the big tie replacing machines did all the track between switches and trestles.

Chris and I were nineteen years old, and we considered ourselves to be in pretty good shape. It was the norm that one man could replace one tie in an hour. This meant we had to dig around and under the old tie, remove the spikes and plates, pull the old tie from under the rails, slide and align the new tie under the rails, replace the plates, tamp the shit out of the ballast to make sure the new tie was secure and in place, and then drive in the spikes. The old guys did this job in about fifty minutes, then rolled a cigarette, and had a cup of coffee. They probably replaced an average of seven ties a day. I think on my best day I might have replaced three or four. Chris was better than me, and he usually did one more than I did.

Some days we worked our butts off, at least I did, albeit inefficiently; and other days we did nothing except cruise our section for the inspection, and build little fires to try to get warm. It was colder than a well diggers ass in that canyon with the temperature in the teens and the constant wind, we probably had a wind chill in the minus twenties. Some days it was so raw and cold that the foreman kept us in the shack. If I hadn't brought a book, there was always old porn magazines to peruse. Most days Chris and I rode in one car, but occasionally we would both need to drive. Once on the curvy gravel road down to the canyon, we would play like one of us was a moonshine driver being pursued by the other that was the revenuer. We would be fish-tailing around sharp corners with the canyon below and certainly there were not any guard rails. To be immortal and nineteen again would scare me to death now. There was a reason that I never thought I would live to be as old as I am now

About April I decided I would move to Seattle. I had friends living there and going to U of W. They had the great fortune to be living in a fire station on an old Navy hospital that had been converted into a TB Sanatarium, and a state care center for the warehousing of “special” citizens. The fire station had two vintage 1940's fire trucks, a hose drying tower, an office for the chief, two rooms and a bathroom next to the trucks for two old somewhat special men, Bob and Leroy; and six dorm rooms, bathroom, and day room for the younger men. Most were college students, but a few of us were working and saving money to go back to school. I moved in when one of the guys graduated, and then there were four of us from Pasco, one from Kennewick, and I can't recall who was the sixth. For going to one hour training sessions every week, and staying in the station and being on fire call every third night, we received our room with weekly maid service, and meals at the hospital cafeteria that was about two blocks from the fire station, and used by the hospital nurses. And, this was 1967, the summer of love! We had it made.

The call outs for fires were rare. Usually it was for a trash basket fire, or one of our “special” patients would pull the fire alarm so they could see the fire trucks drive through their grounds of the hospital. I do remember one time in August when it was really hot for Seattle, and several of us had just returned from swimming in Haller Lake, and were sitting in the day room drinking a beer, when we got an alarm that was a real fire in an old school about a quarter mile from the station. This old wannabe fireman named Pat was our weekend chief. He was a wannabe because he was too short to be a real fireman, but he did a lot of our training. Anyway, Pat called out the type of hose lay we would use, and we were hooked to the hydrant and pouring water on the flames a good twenty minutes before the county fire fighters arrived. Everybody involved said we did really well as volunteer fire fighters. What a rush! I was really full of myself that day, and later that evening when I had a date with a UW coed.

By the following spring, I moved out of the fire station, and over to Magnolia Bluff; but my place was taken by another guy from Pasco. I think we controlled three or four of the rooms. It wasn't too many years later that the hospital was closed. Modern times eliminated the need for TB Sanatariums, and the warehousing of the special patients was no longer in vogue, as they were placed in smaller foster care homes. I am so glad I had friends that had gotten into that fire station, and had invited me to move in with them. It was an experience I will always cherish.

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

The 13th Floor Elevators were perhaps the inventors of psychedelic rock. Certainly they were among the very first to play it. They were also one of the first bands to suffer the prejudice of the moralists and the law. They were, alas, also among the first to pay the consequences of drug abuse.

The band formed in Austin, Texas, around jug musician Tommy Hall and vocalist Roky Erickson, who had already released an earlier version of his You're Gonna Miss Me in 1965, with the Spades. Tommy Hall, who had a background in science and philosophy and had been one of the first kids in town to experiment with drugs, was the brain behind the project. He wrote the cerebral lyrics to their songs, and he invented the sound of the electric jug that became the trademark of their arrangements. Stacy Sutherland was the quintessential fuzztone and reverb guitarist.

Their first album, The Psychedelic Sound Of The 13th Floor Elevators (International Artists, 1966), released in the spring of 1966, is one of the most fascinating of the acid age, the archetype of psychedelia. The album presents a collection of acid ballads that feed on sound effects (Reverberation), on ethereal folk-rock (Splash), on rhythmic boogie (You're Gonna Miss Me), and on down-and-dirty improvisation (above all Roller Coaster, but also Fire Engine). Theirs is a rhythm and blues a la Rolling Stones, viewed through the deforming lens of LSD.

The group's anthem, You're Gonna Miss Me, which made history in the genre, is a ferocious and dissolute soul song with hints of Tex-Mex and depraved vocalizations, full of instinctive fury, and propelled by the demented rhythm of Hall's deafening electric jug.